


What's in a Name

by theshalashaska



Series: Every Thought is of You [4]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M, feel kinda like i'm building this up though so maybe next time we'll have something fruitful, i was trying to reach 1k but wasn't feeling it, the next installment ass-hundred years later, whenever that happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 22:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshalashaska/pseuds/theshalashaska
Summary: "...[It was] the only name he would ever know as his own."





	What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Look, I've woken up from my thousand year slumber. 
> 
> Anyway, this kind of just popped into my head out of nowhere, and I decided to get off my ass and finally write something. I've been having a lot of fun with this series, honestly, and I would absolutely love to find the motivation to write more. So if *you* want more, please feel free to spam me about actually doing something about it.
> 
> Side Note: You might wanna read "Wouldn't, Shouldn't, Couldn't" before this one (it does give a bit of context).

They never touch. I notice this over time, with each rare face-to-face interaction between the two of them. I still can’t tell whether it’s on purpose 

 

_ (Not for John, he’s not aware of it. Doesn’t care enough) _

 

but I am certain it’s no different when they’re alone.  _ If _ they’re alone. I’ve never seen the two walk off together, and I know John leaves as soon as he can. Doesn’t want to ruin the image

 

_ (The two of them could rule the world) _

 

John looks at me with his remaining eye, holds steady for long enough to see if I’m still listening. For all of their similarities, they look nothing alike. John isn’t the man he once was. He’s too cold, too callous. No longer digs around in the dirt like the rest of us, making his counterpart do all the work. He narrows his eye, looks away. If we disappeared, he would have nothing left.

 

_ (They’ll do it anyway) _

 

*****

 

I hear him coming up behind me this time. No repeats. I don’t acknowledge him in any way, which elicits a small clearing of his throat. I look at him, and he still won’t meet my gaze, months later. I try to read his expression, but he’s gotten better at guarding it. Good.

 

“I remembered something last night. I can’t remember who told me…” He trails off, and I wonder if he’ll switch gears again. He shakes his head, just barely. “Doesn’t matter. But I remembered a name. Adamska.”

 

I freeze. I couldn’t have told him. No, I  _ know  _ I didn’t.

 

_ (It was Miller, it has to have been him. He’s the only one John would’ve told. I’ll kill him) _

 

“I think that name, and I picture you,” he continues. “Is it?”

 

I consider lying, until I feel the barest graze of gloved fingers against my forearm. He’s looking through my eyes, and through me completely. I feel my mouth twist ever so slightly. I decide to tell him.

 

_ (I couldn’t lie to him if I wanted to) _

 

I clear my throat. “More or less. I told him that years ago.”

 

He looks down, and the spell is broken. My fingers find my temple and rest there a moment. His hand is still there, resting lightly against my shirt. He won’t touch his doppleganger--actively avoids it, won’t even make contact with the prosthetic--but doesn’t think twice about me. He’s familiar with me. Trusts me, maybe, or at least trusts me enough.

 

“What made you ask?”

 

He looks unsettled, but then he usually does. What is it to not have an identity of your own, or a name to separate then from now? He’s told me once that he has no recollection of his old name, or any life before this one. 

 

Every memory before his waking

 

_ (V has come to, the only name he would ever know as his own) _

 

is a faded wisp, like whispers of a bedtime story last told when he was small. Like living in a fog, and somehow having to consolidate those tendrils with us now. John coming into the picture only complicated things.

 

“It’s… nice, knowing something in my head that’s real.”

 

A look flashes across his face, gone before I can try to decipher it, and his arms drops to his side. I think about his name, instead. Venom. I hear the occasional snippet of conversation discussing this, agreeing that it must have something to do with deadliness. But the man isn’t a pit viper, for all that the image fits. He’s been filled with so much of the legend, the name might as well be poison.

 

“I wouldn’t know what that’s like, but I suppose it makes sense.”

 

“Does it…?” he mutters.

 

I realise I haven’t stopped looking at him once throughout the conversation. I would follow John to the ends of the Earth, but sometimes… sometimes, I wonder if I’d follow him farther. 

 

A minute shake of the head, and he looks at me. Really looks at me this time, and holds it.

 

“Kaz asked to see me after he left.” John is never anything beyond a handful of pronouns in Venom’s mouth. “We’ll talk.”

 

I nod. “Venom.”

 

He’s already walked past me, but I hear the quiet “Adamska” like a leaf on the breeze. I consider stopping him just long enough to explain that there’s a suffix, see which one he’ll use. I let it slide; there are less important things that demand my attention.

**Author's Note:**

> **The suffix at the end of Adamska that Ocelot refers to is the -ska. On a day-to-day basis, he would go by “Adam,” as adding “-ska” to the end denotes endearment. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
